


Complete and Radiant, Sealed by Fire

by Carelica



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America Sam Wilson, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Yearning, brief references to chronic illness, mystery and romance, painstakingly-researched military tac pants fly-opening, serum-induced soul bond (yeah I didn't expect that either!), tender and urgent hand jobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carelica/pseuds/Carelica
Summary: The dream begins the night after Steve’s first treatment. It’s an asthma attack, he’s fighting to breathe, but the cold is new. It sinks into him at a bone level, merciless. His coughing turns to drowning in cold, pale clouds, and he’s locked behind … ice? Glass? He doesn’t know, he’s gasping ... and then he wakes.





	Complete and Radiant, Sealed by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> ( Carelica (prev. **daphneblithe <** :D) : this is for Shrinkyclinks Fest 2019 prompt #34, I think by lovely Gigglepud! (I won't type it all here because was wonderfully detailed and is a total giveaway of what happens :D) . Thank you to breathtaking Nonymos for being Beta-of-Darkness (again!). Thank you to lovely @Vaysh for suggesting we do this collab in the first place! Thanks also to Shrinkyclinks Fest mods for organizing, @Hansbekhart for Bed Stuy apartment expertise, and @Dreadnought for military tac pant fly opening strategy :D.
> 
> The fic title is from Pablo Neruda’s poem “The Dream.”

**_2012_ **

 

The dream begins the night after Steve’s first treatment. It’s an asthma attack, he’s fighting to breathe, but the cold is new. It sinks into him at a bone level, merciless. His coughing turns to drowning in cold, pale clouds, and he’s locked behind … ice? Glass? He doesn’t know, he’s gasping ... and then he wakes.

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

“You’re ready? “ Kind Dr Erskine’s face is shadowed, the bright computer screens of Stark Tower covering the wall behind him. The machine arm beside Steve is loaded with shining needles. Nurses stand around, silent.

Apprehension whips through Steve’s body, but he won’t back out now. He can’t. “It’s probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?”

Erskine smiles, small and warm, and signals to the technician. Steve grits his jaw and reminds himself why he’s doing this.

 

  
\---***---***---

 

Natasha’s hard to win over.

“I’m doing it.” Steve’s abrupt. “I’ve already started.“ He swings into the seat facing her. The coffee shop’s bustling and cheerful, but her green gaze is cool.

She doesn’t reply immediately, but picks up her cup and sips, watching him across it. Then she sets it back down, her movements deliberate. “So, hey, did you know that in 1930s America, eugenics was really popular?” Her tone is deceptively casual. “They had distinct lack of enthusiasm for people who were chronically ill. Saw them as less worthwhile, as needing to be ‘fixed.’” The air quotes are audible.

Steve’s anger flares, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. “Don’t patronize me, Nat. I’m not doing this because I buy into any able-bodied bullshit about illness being a problem.”

She arches an eyebrow, but Steve doesn’t waver.

“Okay.” She leans back in her chair, radiating skepticism. “So why _are_ you doing this, Steven Grant Rogers? Steve!” Her studied calm melts away. “This is _Stark Industries_! Capitalist, profiteering! Have you lost your mind? Being, what, a guinea pig for their experiments?”

Steve has the grace to look away for a moment. “Nat, sure, I’m not wild about the Stark link. But I –“ he starts to cough, and Natasha bites her lip. When Steve resurfaces, he chokes out, “Look. There’s nothing wrong with me being like this.” Small and thin, with four autoimmunities, permanent pain, arrhythmia, fibromyalgia and two different endocrinological conditions. “I’m not physically strong, fine, I don’t give a shit about that. But the _kinds_ of activism I want to do I – I want more stamina. I want to travel more, I want to _march_. I want to be _relentless_ , Nat. I want to go to places, confront people, I don’t want any constraints. I want to smash through everything.” He can hear how urgent his own voice is getting, and some people at nearby tables glance over. He doesn’t care about them. He hasn’t told her the full truth yet, though.

“And yes, okay. Yes.” He exhales, looks up at the ceiling. “Yeah. Fine, I do want to hit things, and not in the metaphorical sense. Sometimes I … sometimes that is the right thing to do.”

Nat’s expression doesn’t yield. “You can’t be an activist without that?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Of course I can. This doesn’t — doesn’t stop a lot of things. It’s … for me, personally, I want to do _those_ things, in _that_ way.” He hears his own tone shift, a blatant plea for understanding from his best friend, but of course he’s going to do it anyway, whether she hears him or not.

Nat’s expression softens, but the corners of her mouth droop and her chin crumples. “And if it hurts you?” The question is quiet.

Steve straightens. “That’s a risk I run.”

Nat scowls. “Goddammit, Rogers.” She closes her eyes and exhales long, then snaps them open again. “Fine. I’ll stop giving you a hard time. Just – if anything weird happens, you’ll stop?”

Steve smiles at her, lopsided. “Weird is kinda the point.”

Nat throws her hands into the air. “Fine. _Fine_ .” She sounds exasperated, but finally her smile is warm, even if tinged with sadness. She picks up her cup again, but hesitates before she drinks. “I do know why this matters to you, Steve.”

Steve swallows, looks away. She does know. For a moment his thoughts flick to his parents, then he deliberately locks down those memories.

Focus. Achieve this thing. Then fight in the way you need to. 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

As the treatments progress, his body slowly alters. He stops coughing, stops needing his inhaler so often. The fibro pain and tender spots ebb, until after he suddenly realizes one day that he hasn’t felt even a twinge for 24 hours. His autoimmunities seem to go into remission. He’s needing much less sleep, and can pull long hours. The others in their shared apartment crash long before he does, and he's relentless at direct action events, physically tougher, indefatigable. 

Then one day he wakes up and — _color_ . What he saw before was washed out and pale compared to these vivid reds and blues and greens. He’s been living in a cartoon world all along, and never known it. He spends that day walking, looking, his heart glowing with the sheer wonder of it. Gratitude.

Weird turned out to be wonderful.

Except for the dreams. They … aren’t. He continues to dream of the glass, and the fog wraps him close, makes him freeze. Once it is as if his own hand passes in front of his face, maybe to fend off the cold smoke, but there is something strange about it. It looks dark, segmented, as if some kind of insectile thing, or metal.

That dream is so vivid that he jolts awake, shaking, and grabs his own left hand. It’s a visceral relief when he sees it’s not changed. He falls back against his pillows, shaking.

His room is quiet, the retro alarm clock flashing its boxy green numbers through the dark. 3 a.m. 

The greenish light gives the room an underwater quality, or something otherworldly. Sure, it’s not much – a shabby small room in a shabby small apartment in Bed Stuy, roughly the size of a shoebox, shared with Nat and her girlfriend Sharon. He’s sleeping on a mattress in the corner, and his stuff is stacked to the high ceiling.

The rest of the room is full of the things that matter. In the silence of the night and the greenish light they seem to stand out somehow, different, richly symbolic. The placards he’s making. His desk, his art supplies. 

His gaze trails over to the window ledge, and there it is. A reminder of why he has to do all this. The folded Memorial flag in its mahogany display case. He can’t see the brass plaque in the dim light, but he knows what it says. _Joseph Rogers, Corporal. In Memoriam._ Military memorabilia is very far from cool in the circles he runs in, and Steve has mixed feelings about it, but he can't discard it. He remembers how his mom felt about it.

Steve lies there a long time, looking across at the flag, but he’s not really seeing it. Instead, he’s remembering the last time he saw his dad. 

Steve was four. He was too small to remember much, but he’ll never forget that grim final furlough, his dad hitting walls and shouting, and his mom white-faced, patient. Grieving. Much later, Steve understood that his dad wasn’t coping with what he was seeing, with what he was having to do.

Two months later, the knock at the door. More grief then, and a flag to fold.

It didn’t end there, though. Sarah Rogers had to carry on, a single mom with no money and a sick kid and a heart full of sadness. She died five years ago.

Suddenly the memories are too much. Steve turns over and punches his pillow. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. His dad needed more support, and so did his mom. Soldiers and veterans and their families — they’re forgotten too often, neglected too often. He has to try and change that. He can work on that too, even alongside the climate change and anti-capitalist fights.

He closes his eyes. The last thing he sees in the greenish gloom is the recently painted poster “VETERAN RIGHTS NOW.”

“Now” is too late, but Steve’s going to fight anyway. 

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

Steve’s climbing carefully off the bed after the sixth treatment when Tony Stark strides into the clinic. “So you’re Rogers.” His dark eyes are appraising. “You’ve survived this far.”

Steve rubs his arm where the needles are mysteriously no longer leaving bruises, and wonders how someone can be simultaneously charming and a total jerk. “I have.” He doesn’t feel like trying to be nice.

Stark’s face sparks with sudden interest. “No expressions of profuse gratitude? Awed admiration?” It’s mocking but also friendly.

Steve bends to get his jacket, shrugs it on. He doesn’t smile back, meets Stark’s gaze evenly. “As far as I can tell, Erskine gets the credit, but I do need to talk to you.”

Stark arches an eyebrow.

Steve’s undaunted. “Your Ironman stuff could help veterans needing prosthetics. In fact,” Steve straightens, “you should be doing this already.”

Stark tilts his head, considering. His expression is challenging, but he seems more curious than hostile. “It’s not like every random vet has an arc reactor embedded in their chest to power that stuff, Rogers.”

Steve does smile now, and it’s a sharp thing. “Yeah, so you’ll have to–” he gestures with one hand, never breaking his gaze on Stark, “innovate.”

Stark’s eyes narrow and his smile becomes brittle, but it stays. “Let’s talk, Rogers.”

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

It’s the final set of injections. He’s been through this twelve times, but never with such an audience, wow, two army officers and a ... General? “Why the visitors?”

Erskine’s lips twist, wry. “They expect something might happen. They’re wrong, it won’t work like that.”

“Work like what? _What_ might happen?” Steve feels he has rather a right to know, but Erskine shakes his head. “You can relax, Steven.”

Oddly, Steve does. He trusts Erskine, he trusts the needles, and his trusts this experiment that he can admit now was utterly reckless, insanely stupid, but which seems against all reasonable expectation to be helping him.

He breathes in, breathes out, and the needles slide home. There’s the familiar bright spark of pain flaring along his arms, the long muscles of his legs, then the usual flood of calm. Familiar. Finished.

He opens his eyes as the needles are withdrawn, and Erskine’s smiling. “How do you feel?”

Steve considers a moment. He can breathe, he feels warm, strong. “Good.”

The army guys look dissatisfied and are muttering, heading out. Erskine glances after them, seems amused. “Okay, Steven. As you know, we’ll continue tracking your metrics for three years, make sure that your health gains remain, maybe even improve further. Go home and rest, and I’ll see you for the check-up in two weeks.”

Steve’s smiling as he leaves Stark Tower. He’s stronger. He can breathe more easily. He can physically handle more than he could, and he is going to use it for all he can.

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

Something changes after the last treatment.

The dreams become exquisite, tormenting, erotic. A pale face, wide eyes, dark hair. A firm, strong body underneath him, and warm skin, slippery, sensual. Steve’s waking hours are wracked by dream-memories of moving together, wet and urgent.

On the seventh night of the dreams, Steve wakes hard and gasping.

He staggers to the bathroom and looks in the mirror. He looks the same, his face narrow and pale, determined. The dreams seemed so real. 

He rubs the back of his hand hard across his forehead, eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the bathroom light. He needs more rest. Probably a temporary … side effect. Vivid dreams. Sure.

The dreams don’t stop, though. Months go by, and soon Steve feels he would know the dark-haired stranger’s skin by touch, his lips by taste.

 

 

  
\---***---***---

******_2014_ **

 

Erskine’s finishing the last blood test when Stark breezes in. “Rogers!”

Steve smiles. He’s warmed up to Stark in the year they’ve been collaborating, even though the inventor’s still maddening. There’s no denying that Stark’s come through on the project. “The trials? They’re going ahead?”

Stark spreads his arms wide, radiates smugness. “No problem too large. Imaginative, ground breaking, I bring all of it.” Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes. Stark’s arrogant, but it’s not unfounded. Then Stark’s smile falls away. “I know about trauma.”

The sudden shift to sincerity throws Steve off balance. “What?” he glances at Erskine, who looks solemn, lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t speak or meet Steve’s gaze. He carries away the vials.

Stark’s fiddling with a gadget, and is still looking at Steve. Repeats. “I know about trauma. Things you don’t want to remember. Things you did that you wish you hadn’t.” He hesitates, then “Kid, I can guess why you’re so fired up about all this, and I’m sorry. Vets do need better support. I can’t do the feelings stuff, but I can bring genius engineering.”

He pats Steve’s shoulder, expression suddenly lighter again, distracted. Stark is so dizzyingly changeable. “Oh yeah, and unimaginable wealth, I’ve got that too. A million dollar donation to the veteran charity of your choice, that’s a start.”

Exasperation and affection warm Steve all through. “Stark, you can’t buy your way out of caring about this." Not very gracious, Rogers. “But that’s generous. Thanks.” He can’t help speaking stiffly.

Stark’s smile is warm now, “I know you want to punch me. But seriously, Rogers,” and those big dark eyes seem candid. “Come to me if money or engineering or —" he waves a hand in grandiose style, “an attitude of I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-conventions is something you ever need.”

Steve can’t help grinning back. “It’s a deal.”

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

Steve’s hunched with others over maps for more direct action. He’s been pulling impossible hours, managing to be everywhere and doing everything on minimal sleep. When others are bleary-eyed he’s as determined and alert as ever, and he never seems to get post-campaign flu or have his physical energy flag. Nat calls him a pocket protest dynamo. He stands up and —

_… screaming pain and light and blue blue light and black arms across his vision, the machine has him in its cold cruel bite let go let go let go no no …_

He’s on the floor, His friends faces are clustered over him, anxious,

“Steve? Oh my god.”

“Do you have seizures? We didn’t know.”

“What do you need?”

“No, give him space, don’t crowd him.”

It’s Nat. She’s beside him, practical, her long cool fingers on his wrist. “Steve.” Her eyes are calm and questioning.

“Yeah.” He’s disoriented. “I’m fine. I’m. Maybe a side effect of the – the treatment. I’m fine.”

Nat helps him back to the apartment they're sharing with D.C.-based activists, and he crashes in a dark bedroom for the rest of the day.

He’ll have to go and be assessed by Erskine, but Steve feels bone-deep-sure that he’s physically fine. This was a one-off. What isn’t fine, though, is the way he’s awash in deep, deep sadness, adrift in some lost place and time. For the rest of the day he moves in a profound loneliness.

He tests clear of any neurological issues, and nothing like that happens again. After waiting three months he’s cleared to drive. Yet Steve still can’t shake the strange sadness.

It’s as if ... these aren’t his feelings. It’s a ridiculous thought, and he shoves it aside. Yet somehow it stays with him, keeps returning, nags at him during the months that follow.

If these feelings aren’t his, whose are they?

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

**_March 2014_ **

 

Steve’s heading into Washington D.C., and has made it as far as Virginia Avenue. Traffic’s heavy, but then, what the hell? _Gunshots_?

He slams on the brakes and barely avoids rear-ending the car in front. This isn’t — it sounds like a war zone. Screaming, cars crashing, maybe a bus? 

He ducks behind the dash. He can hear car doors opening, people running, and someone screams, “It's Iron Man! And Captain America!”

What the fuck? _Stark?_ And ... _Captain America?_ Steve can’t resist — he’s always idolized Sam Wilson. He's never met him, though he knows he fights beside Stark in that Avengers thing.

Steve cautiously lifts his eyes above the dash and yes, in the distance, impossibly, it's the actual superhero himself. Steve can see the glitter of his wings and the red-white-blue gleam of his shield, but he’s far away, and the gunshots are getting closer. A car hurtles across the road and slams into another, explodes, and Steve ducks back down behind the dash, heart pounding. There's more screaming and the sound of footsteps, panic. Then silence.

Every ounce of common sense says to stay where he is, hunched down for protection, so Steve can never really explain why he does what he does next.

As he huddles there, he gradually becomes aware something’s pulling him. It’s like a hook behind his chest, tugging him, first gentle, then insistent.

It’s a quiet feeling, spacious. It makes no sense, but it’s clear and clean and true and it’s calling him. Something’s calling him, and he has to move.

Steve cautiously lifts his head from behind the dash, and quietly unlocks the door, slips out. The smell of cordite and ash are heavy in the air. Everything is still, there’s no movement – people have either fled or are hiding, but ... no, there _is_ movement.

There’s a man, holding a gun. He moves like a panther, all grace and coiled power. Tall and dark, a fall of dark hair, a metallic, segmented arm, a gun. He should be terrifying, but he’s beautiful

For a moment Steve can hardly breathe. He straightens, shoulders dropping back, defenseless with amazement. It’s _him_. Steve _knows_ him. _It’s you_. Steve wants to cry out, run to him. The pull behind his heart is singing. _It’s you. It’s you._

Instead he stays motionless, open mouthed.

The man sees him and stops moving. He’s entirely still.

Then the man crumples in on himself, staggers back. He drops the gun. His hands are in front of his face and he’s shaking. He’s falling to his knees, and now Steve is running. He's so much stronger now, he can breathe, he can run, and he’s not coughing or gasping when he reaches the dark-haired man kneeling in the road. Steve’s beside him, his arms are around him, and the warmth behind his chest is pure bright fire.

The man looks at him, eyes wild. The black mask over his face covers his expression, but his body is tight with panic, and he scrambles to his feet, pulling Steve with him.

He’s tall and so strong. Steve presses his hands hard against the black tac vest, leaning away, straining, but the contact between their bodies is electric.

The man’s eyes are wide, round, and his face is even paler now. He looks … scared. Deeply confused.

Steve stares back. He knows, distantly, that he should feel fear, but somehow that’s irrelevant in the face of the vivid, inexplicable joy running through him. This man won’t hurt him. He’s sure of it.

So it’s a shock when the man grabs him and throws him over his shoulder. Steve flails ineffectually, striking his fists against his back, but the man doesn’t react at all, keeps moving fast. Steve’s dimly aware that the guy seems to be tearing at his metal arm, he can hear whirring, and then a metal crunch, and he throws something away, but Steve’s distracted by bouncing upside down to really track what’s going on or even where they are going. Then the world tumbles in a blur and he’s on the floor.

Steve swallows, rubs his chest – an instinctive holdover from the asthmatic days – and looks around.

It’s a building site, half-constructed. Weird octopus symbols seem to be on some of the structures Steve can see, but a lot of it’s under dust sheets. Looks like it’s been half built and then left for a while. There are no sounds outside, but the smoke from the explosions is still hanging in the air, so they can’t have gone far.

The dark haired man is standing beside him, shaking. He’s not touching Steve now, looking at him over his mask, his eyes still wide and frightened. He seems incredibly vulnerable despite his physical strength.

Steve takes a step toward him.

Then man doesn’t move.

Steve steps closer, right up to him. Then he reaches up, careful, telegraphing every movement.

The man doesn’t look away. He’s still staring at Steve, and Steve feels like there is something like a plea in his eyes.

Still moving slowly, gently, Steve reaches around the mask, feeling for a clasp, some tie. Ah. There …

Steve unhooks the mask and in a single, luminous moment sees the face behind. A clean sweep of jaw, high cheekbones, and those wide, frightened eyes. Silence falls like the ash drifting down around them.

It’s him. There’s no doubt about it. Steve can’t help it, he lifts his hand to cup the man’s cheek, and in response his face crumples and he turns into Steve's palm, as if seeking more of the gentle contact.

Steve’s heart twists. “I know you.” He strokes his thumb over the left cheekbone, smooths the shadows under the left eye. “I _know_ you. You sleep in cold and ice. You ..." he strokes his hand over the man’s hair, so gently. “You suffer.”

It’s astonishing. How can this be true? — but it is. This is the face Steve sees in dreams, the lips he kisses, the hair he strokes. These are the wide eyes, sometimes tearful and frightened, but sometimes dark and hungry.

Tears are gleaming on the man’s cheeks now, and his eyes are still closed, but at that he opens them. His voice is low, ragged. “I saw you.” He falters. “The dreams, when they put me in the ice. It was you.” He swallows. “And now you’re here.”

Steve can’t help it, he pulls the man to him, feeling all that shaking fear and longing for tenderness, and meeting it with his own ferocity.

The man mutters into Steve’s hair, “You were always thinking of changing the world.”

Love and astonishment make Steve’s bones feel light as air. He pulls back to look at the man. “What’s your name?”

The man shrugs. “I don’t know. They call me Soldier. They – ” A flicker of terror crosses his face and he moves fast, pulls Steve tight against him and backs them into a corner half concealed by heavy machinery. Steve’s heart is hammering but somehow he isn’t scared. Being pressed so close against Soldier is strangely soothing. It feels right.

When they are safe in their refuge Soldier doesn’t let go. Steve’s still tight against his front, face buried in the tac vest, and he can smell leather and sweat and cordite.

To his absolute horror, he feels himself start to get hard.

 _This isn’t a goddamn dream, Rogers! This is real!_ His cheeks warm and he shifts, but his groin is still pressed against Soldier’s thick thigh. Steve’s acutely aware that his jeans can't conceal he's turned on.

Soldier pulls back enough to look down at Steve. He looks uncertain, and his tongue darts out. He bites his full lower lip, and Steve can’t look away from his mouth.

With a huge effort, Steve drags his gaze back up to Soldier’s. “I’m sorry.” Steve pulls back, to at least stop pressing his erection up against the poor guy’s leg, _seriously, Rogers, what the fuck’s wrong with you_ , but then Soldier’s grip around his waist tightens.

Steve looks at him, startled. Soldier’s expression has changed. His uncertainty is gone, and there is a sureness there now. His words are a breath. “In the dreams. You touched me and I touched you and—“ the man closes his eyes, swallows. “Nothing hurt anymore.” He looks dazed.

Steve’s dimly aware that he should be thinking all this through — the way the dreams started after the treatment, the way it gave him some improbable mental connection with this man — but the next second he stops thinking entirely because those full lips are on his.

It’s like wildfire, Steve can’t think. They are gasping into each other’s mouths, moving against each other, twisting against each other, like they have in dream so many times before. His hands are fumbling at the front of Soldier’s tac pants, there’s no zip, seems like button snaps, and he yanks at the fly, urgent now, his other hand winding up to behind Soldier’s neck. Steve can’t help it, his lips are moving blindly up to his even while his hand slides into Soldier’s pants and _oh_ , warm skin, electric contact, and Steve’s fumbling more, pulling out the hard length, feeling the weight of him blood-hot in his palm.

When Soldier’s hand slides around him in turn, Steve cries out at the sharp sweetness of painful relief. They’re moving together, the rhythmic crest building, and they’re wet and hard and oh so perfect. 

_Familiar_. Steve knows this. They’ve kissed a thousand times, gasped together a thousand times. Somehow, in some space beyond sleep, their bodies know each other.

It’s their first time, and it isn’t.

 

 

  
\---***---***---

 

“You’re a soldier?”

They’re lying together, curled up on rough sacks, still nestled in this odd, dusty refuge. It should feel surreal but Steve’s still warm right through with the sheer rightness of it all. He can’t look away from his face, that strong jaw, the dark hair.

He wants to ask so many questions, but first he needs to put support in place, to get the Soldier to safety. He shuffles in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and Soldier opens his eyes to watch sleepily but doesn’t object. Steve sends Stark a dropped pin and texts _urgent. this is linked to the scene on the highway_. Then he settles back into Soldier’s arms, half atop him, and they drowse a while.

Eventually, though, Steve can’t hold his questions at bay.

He pulls back enough to see Soldier. Soldier’s eyes are closed, but he looks peaceful too. Both arms are tight around Steve, and Steve’s lying half atop him.

Steve murmurs, “Can I ask things?”

Soldier twitches his head away, eyes still closed, but then his body softens and he nods slowly, once.

“The glass? It was so cold.”

A small line appears between the man’s eyebrows. “Cryo-chamber.” It’s a whisper. “Freeze and sleep.” He opens his eyes now, those deep pools of cool grey, and pulls Steve even closer.

“The electricity?”

“Torture.” Steve tenses, suddenly hot with rage, but the man’s mouth lifts at one corner and he puts one hand, so gentle, to Steve’s throat, and asks his own question. “Choking?”

Steve frowns, nods. “Asthma. Though it went away after I started the treatment at Stark.”

The man’s hands stroke down Steve’s shoulders, gently brushing he long muscles of his arms. “The needles …?”

“Science experiment.” Steve hesitates. “It was after the serum that I started to dream of you. Can you — ” he’s searching the man’s eyes, “can you explain that?”

The man’s smile is sweet and vulnerable. “I don’t know.”

Steve hesitates. “You’re a soldier…. U.S. Army? Some kind of … secret ops? Off grid?” Steve's hand drifts over the black straps, he somehow doubts that black bondage gear is exactly standard issue, but then the thud of metal feet makes it clear they have company.

 _“Rogers?_ Where the hell even are we.” Thump, thump, yeah, it's Stark. Iron Man comes round the corner, and " _Jesus_!” Stark whips up his palms, aims a repulsor at Soldier. “Get away from him!”

Soldier lets go of Steve instantly and scrabbles backwards, cringes against the wall. His eyes are wide and he looks scared, guilty, and Steve’s abruptly furious. He stands square in front of Soldier, facing Stark. Implacable, a shield. “Stark! Back the hell off! He’s not a threat!”

“Shut up, Rogers.” Stark’s not looking away from Soldier. “This guy just carved up a DC Highway and tore out my steering wheel with his bare hands. Admittedly I doubt anybody’s gonna miss Sitwell, but that’s not the point.” He hasn’t lowered his palms, and the Soldier’s visibly shaking.

Steve throws himself in front of Stark and physically yanks his hand back down. “ _Stark._ You need to _listen_. _Your treatment’s_ been letting us read each other’s minds for two years!”

Stark gapes.

Wow, something’s actually succeeded in shutting Stark up.

Stark slowly drops his hands. There’s a long pause.

“O-kay. Okay. That’s not what I expected to hear.” Another pause. “Fine. Operation Fuck Common Sense is under way. Let’s get him to the Tower. Under _guard_ , mind.” Stark’s expression is briefly fierce. “Wilson will be back at the Tower already **—** you haven’t met him yet, have you, Rogers?’

Steve tries to look nonchalant at the prospect of meeting his hero, and fails. Since Stark’s stopped shouting at Soldier, Steve relaxes his defensive posture and turns back to pull the taller man into a protective embrace.

Stark pauses and looks at them cuddling, and breaks into a half-smile. “This endearing tableau is not how I expected this day of highway mayhem to end, but come on. We have stuff to do, a world to save, a secret organisation to rip open.”

Steve doesn’t know what any of that means, but Soldier’s hand is warm in his. They walk out together, in daylight, moving on earth and in sunlight.

Steve leans against his arm as they walk, and the song in his chest turns gold. They are complete. They are radiant.

 

**Author's Note:**

> :) <3 I made a [tweet](https://twitter.com/carelica/status/1115757361526923264)! :)
> 
> If you liked reading this, you might like this? — [Love Among the Ruins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929495), Stucky eerie romance, angst with a happy ending, historically accurate psychiatry, melancholy, devotion, wildly romantic tenderness  
> 58k, explicit, illustrated with 21 works of art (some NSFW), and a playlist. (And archive warning for four scenes, but I have made it easy to skip those, and posted an alternative chapter).


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